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The air hung heavy, thick with moisture, mist, and the stench of the bog surrounding him. Solomon looked down to find he stood in a shallow pool of muck. That it was opaque concerned him. To one side, the gnarled roots of a giant, twisting, contorted tree cut through the mist, crawling out from the tree's trunk and extended over the pool before diving into it. He placed a hand on a large root—one closest to him—and nausea struck the moment he touched it, causing him to double over and retch. The smell of the bog and the foul sensation he experienced from touching the tree kept him retching for some time, until he had enough presence of mind to remove his hand from the root. The feeling of nausea subsided, and he was able to stand upright.

He looked around and found there was little to see; the mist was dense and limited his vision. Vague shapes presented themselves around him, but nothing resembling a dry patch of land could he see. The trunks of the trees lay suspended over the muck, held up by their numerous roots stretching out from their bases. Through the mist, among the trees, he thought he saw a circle of standing stones, all askew, all leaning every which way. Without a clear direction to head, Solomon began making his way to the circle.

The muck was quite shallow. At its deepest, from what he could determine, his feet sank to complete submersion, with the mud sloshing over his ankles. It was, however, too thick to push his feet through. To move, he had to step. To step, he had to lift his foot out of the muck. The process was arduous and his movement was slow. He estimated it would take him the better part of the day to arrive at the stones. The mist obscured the source of light, and diffused it, casting the environment in browns, tans, and greens, making it appear as if the light came from everywhere at once. Thus was he unable to determine the time; it may be perpetually afternoon as far as he knew.

He stepped and squished his way under and around the trees and their roots. He took care not to touch them where he could avoid it, and promptly released them when avoidance was impossible. No animals could be heard, though he was convinced the trees themselves were moaning. If they were, this was no sound of pleasure; the moaning, if the trees were making any sound at all, was that of sorrow. He ducked under a giant root, and as he stood, he found himself within touching distance of a tree. At this proximity, he could see it clearly. The longer he looked, the more convinced he became he was looking at a large face of an elder human growing among the bark of the trunk. An elder human lamenting a life lived in wretchedness.

"Tragic, aren't they?"

Solomon snapped his head around at the sound of the stranger's voice. She sat poised, erect, at the top of the shortest of the leaning stones, on the side of the circle closest to him. She wore her usual black cloak, from which her bare legs of the deepest ebony protruded, crossed at the knees. He had not realized he was so close to the stones. The mist, it seemed, played with his vision, with his sense of depth.

The stranger held a lit cigarette in her lips; this was the first time her face was not obscured, though only her mouth was exposed. The rest of her face was covered by what appeared to be a ceramic mask in the shape of a rabbit's head. The creamy white of the ceramic and the cigarette contrasted with the deep ebony of her skin. She took a long drag as Solomon turned to face her.

"What are they?"

Continued after the break

"'WHOOOO are they?', Solomon," she said, as she expelled the smoke. The smoke came out as a giant ring, wafting toward and around Solomon, dissipating as he waved his arm to break it up. "'Who,' for they are people. Or were, anyway. These are the souls consumed by the King, held here for all eternity." She paused to take another drag. She held the smoke as she said, "Well, at least the ones who have given up." She released the smoke from the corner of her mouth. "The ones who tired of wandering."

She sat in silence as Solomon contemplated this revelation. From his limited vision, he had no way of knowing how many were here, how far this bog extended. However, he had passed a great many on his way to the stones; he imagined there were many, many more. The stranger continued.

"Their twisted appearance is the manifestation of the twisting they undertook, once the King got his hooks in them. Some were men of means, princes and kings in their own right. But those kinds of men are easy to twist. They care only for wealth; only for power."

"And the others?"

"Oh, a little bit of everyone. The King's influence extends all over your world. Once he takes up residence in a new place, it is not long before the madness grows across the region. Many do not succumb right away, but a great many do. In time, all will fall to his influence."

"Then he must be stopped."

"Ah yes," she said with a smirk. "He must be stopped. How do you intend to stop him?"

"I will go to him and break his hold on my world."

"Oh Solomon, how simple it must sound in your mind. You who have ignored my warnings, my remonstrations, my visions. In your arrogance you return to claim you will best the master." She took another deep drag on the cigarette, held it. "Yet here you are, lost in a bog, and not a step closer to the tower." She released the smoke.

"This is the swamp, isn't it? Just beyond the maze?"

The stranger laughed, once again her tinkling, musical laugh full of humor and condescension. Solomon took a deep breath to center himself. He would not allow himself to be bothered by it.

"No, Solomon. If you want to place yourself somewhere in the garden, as if some piece on a game board, then you have nary left the gazebo. You remain on this side of the maze."

"Okay, then how do I get to the tower from here?"

"Solomon. Oh dear Solomon. The tower isn't a place you can simply saunter up to and into. It is all around you. It is inside you. It is you."

Solomon tilted his head in confusion.

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Of course it doesn't. Not to someone who lacks the ability to understand. I told you at the very beginning, Solomon: you are here too strongly, and you lack the foundation to maintain yourself. The King already has his hooks in you, but you are too blind to your own failings to recognize those hooks. Though I doubt you would admit to them even if you did recognize them, so great is your arrogance."

Every word was biting. Every word stung. The worst part, however, was his struggle to understand why. If the words were untrue, meaningless, flung out at him for the sole purpose of being hurtful, he shouldn't be bothered by them. He cast this aside; there would be time to contemplate this when he completed this process of discovery, after this third alarm. Now, he needed information.

"Help me then. Help me get to the King."

A sigh of exasperation escaped the stranger's lips. Her masked slipped. She was, however, quick to set it aright. She took a long drag of the cigarette, taking the ash down to the filter before removing it from her lips. Solomon watched as the cigarette reconstituted itself. She blew out the smoke.

"I am, Solomon. Or I am trying to help you. You won't listen. You are reckless and arrogant. It is clear to me what I say goes in one ear and right out the other. Without a sense—"

The blaring horn sounded. The mist pulsed between brilliant reds at the height of the noise and the deepest blacks at the depths of it. The stranger looked around, then shook her head.

"I'm warning you, Solomon." She was shouting to be heard. "These tricks of yours won't hold much longer." She began to disperse.

"Just tell me how to get to the King." Solomon shouted in return, vying to be heard over the din.

"Only when your mind is still will you find your way through," she said. "But I fear the time for you to find stillness is long past."

She was gone. The empty mask and reconstituted cigarette fell. Solomon threw his hands out in an attempt to catch them before the muck claimed them ...

... and awoke in the living room, his alarm going off next to him.

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